Fortune was neither a man with great luck nor wealth, despite the implications of his name. He had spent more days of his without a roof over his head than with and that was not a result of a lifestyle of camping and adventure. No, fortune was quite unfortunate. He was a beggar and a vagabond, confined to a life on the streets of a bustling port town.
Homelessness was not as big of a stigma as a city-dweller might imagine, for sailors often made their beds on the decks of their vessels or in the gutters clutching the cheapest bottles of booze. It was his appearance that was his brand of shame. Not only did it give him a cursed look to the portsfolk but it also gave him a dreadful disaffinity for the light and heat of the sun. While his snow-white hair might have been considered a mark of beauty by some it was Fortune’s ghostly white palor and blood red eyes that instilled fear into those that saw him. “Vampire”. “Ghost”. “Demon”. He had heard it all before and often enough that even the foulest names did not cause him to raise an eyebrow or spark anger in his heart. He had been stripped of those emotions through sheer volume of experience. Instead, he found meaning in the less frequent, positive experiences in life.